


There's Still Hope

by laceration



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Genocide, Genocide Frisk, Genocide Papyrus, Genocide Sans, Hope, Other, Tragedy, Undertale Genocide Route
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-17 23:23:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14199891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laceration/pseuds/laceration
Summary: Why Papyrus chose to believe even in death, and Sans' decision to either give up or continue on. Takes place during the Genocide timeline. Other character perspectives included.





	1. Papyrus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started this back in 2016 with the intention of finishing it, but school got in the way and it was placed on the back-burner. That being said, I just want to apologize for any cringe or angst filled writing 'cause... y'know... teenager.   
> I swear eventually this will get done, just not anytime soon.
> 
> (ノ*゜▽゜*)ノ Enjoy~!!

Papyrus often felt like he was forgetting something. Or rather, there was something he didn't understand.

Visions, of the human and him facing one another from a distance. His brother crying out his name from somewhere far off. A gleam of red eyes and a silver knife. The faint sight of dust and snow blowing in the wind… then darkness - cold and unrelenting. And like the strange nostalgia that overtook him in those visions, Papyrus could feel a sense of deja vu, from this scene he swears he had experienced, oh so many times before.

He stared at the human. Someone who he felt he had at one point been close to. Someone who he felt, was like a long lost friend. Yet, instead of sharing an embracement like old friends should, the other remained cold, similar to the serene landscape that surrounded them.

This 'human,' continued to ignore what Papyrus thought to be great advice. Sure, he probably shouldn't have called the human a 'freaking weirdo,' or put them down for not sharing his passion of puzzles… but how else was he going to get his point across? This human, that he had only just met, but felt like he had known for ages, was walking down what he felt was a dangerous path. He didn't want that. Wouldn't have that, for someone who he knew had potential and could be great like himself, if only they'd try.

Papyrus let out a laugh as the human drew closer. He knew that the other was still disregarding everything he said, but felt like he could make progress. Somehow get through to them, as he decided to be the guidance that he knew they needed. That's when he had announced himself as this human's friend and tutor. Even if they could've already been friends - somewhere, at some point - in this confusing array of a life.

He thought about Sans. His older brother, who had been there with him since the beginning. Sans, who loved ketchup and telling bad puns, while plaguing his life with incidental music. The very same Sans, who was nothing but kind to Papyrus, did nothing but encourage his passions, and who was always there for him, regardless of his laziness. Yes, if there was one thing Papyrus truly loved, more-so than this world and himself, it was his brother. The one person who he constantly sought to make proud, by increasing the greatness of himself and others. The one person that made him realize, that there is good in this world and in every person, but only if they chose it.

At this point, Papyrus welcomed the human with open arms, as he watched them draw closer then before. The human was still acting strange, but he considered their next course of action to be 'a hug of acceptance.' An act that gave Papyrus confidence, to help the human realize their true self and-!

Vision after vision - death after death - began to flood his skull, and make him see only dust. Each vision of death - a hand snapping a neck, a knife slashing deep - allowing him to piece together all the times he could recall Sans' indifference, or sudden bursts of affection.

Papyrus understood what the visions were now. That the visions had been memories. The dust he had been seeing… was his from numerous deaths. Understood, that Sans' had known all along, and was losing hope. He just wasn't able to piece it all together in time, before the knife cut through the vertebrae of his throat.

Looking up at the human from the ground, as his body slowly turned to dust in the snow beside him, Papyrus did not expect this outcome. Not after he remembered who this human - who Frisk - was, and what they had meant to him. What they 'still' meant to him.

"St-… Still! I believe in you!" He uttered out hoping - wanting - his words to reach his dear friend.

"You can do a little better! Even if you don't think so!"

Yes, he would continue to believe. Continue to have faith and encourage Frisk, just like Sans had done for him, ever since he could remember.

"I… I promise…"

Yes… he would still believe, for not only Frisk's sake, but for Sans as well. So that the human can fight the bad within their-self, and Sans can find the hope to once again, not give up.

Papyrus continued to look up at the human, swearing he could see tears in their eyes. A sign that there was indeed still good within Frisk. But there was nothing he could do now, as he began to feel the last of himself disintegrate into dust. His only regret, not being able to tell Frisk or Sans, why he still believed. That in spite of all these timelines - good or bad and however many there may be - and the fact that he'll keep forgetting them, he will not give up hope for a better outcome for his loved ones.

Feeling his consciousness begin to fade away, Papyrus slowly gave himself to the dark, bitter, and unforgiving coldness of oblivion. The last thing he heard, being the faint call of his name, from somewhere far off.

"Please… Sans… show this human mercy. Please… " But his words were cut short, as the wind carried his voice, with the last of his remains. The human - Frisk - walking on through a mixture of dust and snow, that had once been the being, known as Papyrus.


	2. Sans

The wind howled through the hollow pines that creaked and swayed at its mercy. The river nearby - once a calm steady stream - now violent and roaring in the background. Sans stood in place though, regardless of the oncoming storm.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there - hours maybe - but at some point he had picked up his brother's scarf. He pressed the red piece of fabric to his face. Stupid of him really, to think that there'd be any warmth left, but it was better than staring at the armour left to freeze over on the ground. He smirked at how his brother had called it his 'battle body' - a costume they'd made together for a Halloween party, he doesn't know how many times before. 'How many times before'… the smirk from his face slipped at those words, in spite of the joyous smile that had filled those memories. He felt his knees grow weak and suddenly the ground was a lot closer. It seemed nowadays reality was nothing more than a mere rug always being pulled out from under him. Just when he thought he had a grasp on how to save his brother - to save everyone - from the cruel unknowings of another timeline, there always seemed to be another reset, lying in wait. He had given up on going back long ago - had sworn to himself if he no longer tried, the less hurt he'd have to deal with from the disappointment. Thinking that, made him want to give up on being the saviour too, the all-knowing secret, and last line of defence, for whatever comfort it was worth. But he couldn't. Not because he had hope, but because he couldn't bare to watch his friends die anymore - couldn't bare to watch Papyrus, endlessly be reduced to dust.

Unburying his face from the scarf and carefully taking the time to wrap it around his neck, Sans thought grimly about how Frisk should be entering Hotland right about now. Picturing the human and that sickening smile on their face as they cut down the remaining monsters, filled him with a bitter rage all too familiar. A fury that made him barely register the terrible clacking that seemed to echo from far off. Whether someone - or something - was approaching him from the distance, Sans didn't care. Nothing could be worse than that damned freak returning to taunt him with their existence.

The clacking grew louder - harsher.

Sans knew that he shouldn't feel anything at this point - wanted to feel nothing - but the anger refused to let him be. It was an emotion that had engrained itself deep within his bones and made his marrow itch. When the anger died down, exhaustion took its course and he became nothing. Depression… being the only other companion that emptied him of everything else.

The echoes weren't so far off now. The wind tossing snow and turning it into a blizzard that whited everything out. He could barely see his brother's armour at this point, and even though the storm was steadily freezing the landscape over, nothing seemed to chill the feverish state that had awoken within him.

He wanted to kill Frisk - to bash their head in and hear their skull crack against the castle hall's floor. He wanted the satisfaction of seeing the human frustrated when they'd realize they've met their match. Wants to see them beg in a bloody heap for forgiveness at his feet, in a time where mercy will not be given, nor received. It didn't matter whether their death would be instant or not, just so long as he could rid himself of these festering feelings and urges once more.

The clacking was no longer a series of echoes. The sharpness and hollowness of the sound so close, that if Sans had ears they'd be splitting.

He had decided that if he couldn't predict Frisk's actions, save Papyrus, or figure out why every good timeline kept resetting - stealing everything good from him - he'd settle for making Frisk's life a living hell, with every saved return they dared to make.

The clacking turned more into a rattling - something familiar - Sans distinguished as the falter in his thoughts cut through his anger and made it waver.

Why couldn't he save Papyrus? Why couldn't he stop the resets? Why was their beloved Frisk - a child so seemingly innocent - suddenly something turned so inhuman that it's not even a monster? He clenched his hammering skull and gritted his teeth at his own confusion. There were always so many questions with no answers. It bothered him more not knowing these details, than the fact that there were timelines forcing him to relive the same cursed experiences over and over again. His essence ached for something good, something he knew would stay and not leave or change or-!

Sans opened his eyes that he had not realized had been shut. A white haze all around him from the ongoing blizzard. The storm's howling wind, being the only sound slicing through a silence that would've been, had there been no rattling - a sound now died down, into something soft.

Sans looked down and noticed his shaking. He realized the rattling had been his bones.

He chuckled to himself a bit, at knowing how Papyrus wouldn't have wanted to see him like this. He knew that his brother would've wanted him to smile, to have that so called 'hope' everyone else seemed to have. Yet, even as he forced a smile on his face, he couldn't help the tears that began to leak from his sockets. Yes, just like before… there would be no sparing. And this time for sure… this would be the final reset, he'd allow.


	3. Frisk

They had remembered falling and waking to the sight of yellow. A hand had been outstretched inches from their face. Frisk didn't mean to take their hand, their body having moved of its own accord. Then that's when Torial came - the smile of the owner to the hand that they had held, fading into the darkness. Everything that happened afterwards, being nothing more than a blur of tears and regrets.

Frisk pleaded once more - begged - for this thing known as Chara, to stop what they were making them do. Their chest had ached when they had been forced to deal with Torial - that painful twisted look on their Mother's face - but something inside them broke, when they couldn't stop their-self from killing Papyrus. Who even in death… had still believed in them. Regardless of their cries though, Chara kept moving their feet forward.

Frisk wanted to scream - could feel their throat growing raw from the thought - but this place that they were trapped in - a prison within their own head - would not let them do so. It was their body - their hands - holding that dust covered knife and wearing the powdered clothing that reeked of death. Yet, they had no control. It was frustrating. This… being able to feel, but being unable to express and stop their-self. Frisk hadn't realized it then, but they knew now, that Chara was in their body too. Realized that they were the one in control… realized that they had taken their hand before, and suffered the consequences.

Their skin began to redden and itch. The blizzard that they had walked through coming out of Snowdin had blew off what dust clung to them, but Chara kept killing. Kept forcing Frisk to cut with that knife, and create more dust that stuck to their skin and held like spores in their hair. They wanted to cry. Tried pleading with Chara again, only to have their words fall on deaf ears. They thought back to Torial and Papyrus - Undyne, who they had just finished off. Sans would never forgive them, and Frisk felt sick. Sick with their-self for what they had done and not having the strength to fight back. Their will to do so - long gone.

They had killed their friends and betrayed the ones still living. They were a failure. Something not human or monster. Something equivalent to that of what Chara was. It made them want to die - to not have to watch the massacre before them.

"Why are you looking away?"

Frisk began to tremble. A voice they couldn't locate that echoed and called from all around them, that held so much malevolence, but sounded human all the same.

"This is what you wanted… remember?"

They frantically shook their head 'No.' This wasn't what they had wanted. They had been tricked. Fooled into taking the hand of another fallen human who wasn't human at all.

"I am you and you are me. Our motives are the same. Let's erase this world together."

No. They didn't want that. They wanted their friends back - for this nightmare to be over. They wanted a chance to start again. A chance to not make the same mistake.

"I can hear your thoughts. Let's eradicate the enemy and become strong to erase all that exists. It'll be the same as starting over."

Frisk stopped trembling. It'll be the same as resetting? Everyone will be dead - it won't be the same… will it?

"It will be. A chance for a different ending - one that you've wished for all along. That's why I've been recreated - to help you."

Chara was toying with them and Frisk refused to believe in what they said. It was just another trick. Another lie.

"I see that it's going to take some convincing. But we still have time… look."

With a stiffness in the turn of their neck, Frisk dared to look. They were in Hotland - an area Frisk knew well, and was thankful to everyone for abandoning it. But it's abandonment meant…

"No more distractions. We can head straight for the Barrier."

Frisk became frantic. They knew what came next - the end result was always the same. The Hall of Judgement, Sans' endless wrath, and the pain of dying endlessly. What's worse… they were forced to face the sin they had committed each time. Frisk preferred it that way though. It was better than the other end they vaguely recalled. The one where they kill Sans, making their way to Asgore. The end that Frisk couldn't deal with. They started to scream and cry hysterically - tried to make the sound pass through the rawness of their throat and fall off the burning sensation that was their tongue.

"Let's eradicate the enemy."

Chara's voice sounded like a record that had been broken - repeating in a cruel monotonous way.

"Let's grow strong together."

No…

"Let's erase this world."

No…!

"Let's kill them all."

Chara no longer bothered with the deceitfulness of their human voice - they sounded demonic and Frisk didn't care, screaming "No" until the word reverberated throughout their head. But Chara only laughed. Something that started out like the innocent giggles of a child, then grew into a sadistic and taunting force that pierced the ears and made them bled.

There was no hope. They understood that now - finally comprehended what they had been denying all along, as Chara's intentions echoed harshly throughout the darkness of their prison.

Frisk sobbed in defeat.


	4. Judgement

Brought alight by the setting sun, the hall was plastered in hues of yellow, orange, and red. Yellow for justice, orange for bravery, red for determination. Or at least, in Sans' mind that's how it went. Almost fitting really, for a corridor named The Hall of Judgement, now covered in a sea of bones. The child Frisk—a bloody mess on the other side of the room, struggling to get up.

At this point Sans had lost count. Not that it was something that ever really mattered, but you had to keep some sort of sanity in this hell—some sanity to make the kid realize how many times they've lost, in hopes that they'd give up. And then, not to his surprise—Frisk died. A body gone limp, impaled by bones in a pool of blood—the body disintegrating, rising up into specks, leaving Sans to wait once more. Moments later, the kid walking through the doors healed and set anew, just like the room itself. The only thing made to stay the same, was Sans. And he felt every bruise. Every bit of energy that was sapped, forcing him to wear down—become weak—to be easier to defeat.

Frisk smirked and this time Sans did't bother with words, launching straight into attack. Frisk—dodging everything from memory now, as they made their way closer and closer, stabbing with the knife. Easily Sans made a sidestep catching the kid off guard, sending them flying into one of the hall's pillars. He heard the sound of ribs cracking—Frisk, having fallen to the floor with their knees smacking against the sheen tiles. Wobbly but unshaken by the pain, they turned to him with a grin. He clenched his jaw.

All this time he'd been trying to keep his cool to stop the rage from boiling over, but when the kid kept respawning—when their determination to not give up kept them coming back again and again, stronger from every death made—Sans only felt the flames from his bones grow higher. Their intensity building with every bitter feeling he now felt towards the human. The human who felt nothing for what they'd done—the demon privileged with endless lives over the one's they had took. And what's worse, was that Sans' knew he couldn't dodge forever. That this battle—his taking revenge—was ultimately meaningless… but still, he wouldn't have any of it. Wouldn't dare to just give in and give them what they wanted without putting up a fight, and making it torment for them. They needed to feel the weight of their sins—to feel even half the pain everyone else felt.

He whipped his head back ready to say something—the short scuffle of shoes cutting him off. Frisk was up—lunging with the same speed as before. He moved his hand sending more bones crushing into their legs, the gaster blasters ready on either side to fire. Immediately the kid freed themself, using their arms to swing around one of the bones, avoiding use of their legs. Nearly—just nearly—missing the blast. They swung towards Sans—the knife catching the end of his scarf—Papyrus' scarf.

Turning around delivering a hard kick to their stomach, Sans sent them rolling, sliding across the floor. The sound of more bones breaking while his own continued to grow, readying themselves for impalement.

He unclenched his jaw, looking down at the scarf. There was a tear at the end—another thing he couldn't fix.

With his eye glowing—contrasting against the twilight—the room grew dark. His flames absorbing the light—erupting—when he looked up to stare back at Frisk.

He didn't care anymore that he was the monster's last line of defence. He didn't care about his own life—he just wanted Papyrus back—to not have to deal with this human he had dared to call friend. But he refused to let his emotions show through—wouldn't let someone like Frisk see him pushed over the edge.

Calming himself, he pulled the scarf around tighter—his eye gradually fading back into the darkness of his socket—the room gaining light once more. Still, the flames stayed high, with the feeling of melting not far off. He did his best to put on his usual smugness—relishing even at the heap of broken bones that was now Frisk. And with a short movement of his hand swinging down, he sent the bones impaling once more through their limbs—forcing their way through joints and cartilage.

They were right back where they started.


End file.
